Stanley Elkin - The Living End

Ladlehaus was chewing the fat with Ellerbee, reminiscing about his days as an accomplice and accessory.

“You used to be a handbag?” Ellerbee said.

“A handb—? Oh yeah. You know I never used to get jokes? I could tell them once I heard them, I had a good ear, but I never understood why folks laughed. That’s interesting, too,” he said. “If a fellow told a joke I thought it was a true story. I never laughed at punch lines. It was only when other folks were around and I heard them laugh that I knew.”

“ ‘Folks’?” Ellerbee said. “A hotshot accomplice like you says ‘folks’?”

“Death softens the tongue,” Ladlehaus said, “it kindly’s us.” He barely recognized himself in Ellerbee’s blisters. “I’ve aged,” he said.

“You were aged to begin with,” Ellerbee said. “All right,” he said, “let me.” He combed Ladlehaus’s back for a reflection. They were like apes grooming each other.

“It’s how I got into crime in the first place,” Ladlehaus said, turning around, “not getting the point of jokes, I mean.”

Ellerbee said, “Don’t squirm. I know what you mean. When you didn’t laugh they thought you were tough. They perceived as character what was only affliction. They hard-guy’d you, they street corner’d and candy stored you. I know what you mean.”

“They scaffolded my body with switchblades and pieces,” Ladlehaus said.

“I know what you mean.”

“They Saturday night special’d me. ‘We can get Ladlehaus,’ they’d say. But so tough in their imaginations that at first they wouldn’t risk it.”

“Trigger-happy. I know what you mean. We can only exchange information. Then what happened?”

“The usual.”

“The usual? I didn’t move in your circles. I don’t know what you mean. What was the usual in your circles?”

“They put me behind steering wheels with my headlamps off and my motor running a half block upwind from the scenes of crimes.”

“Oh yes.”

“It was progress of a sort, training. Everybody gets better at things, everybody gets the big break. Opportunity knocks. I never had a record. Did I tell you? I had no record.”

“You told me.”

“I lived to be almost a hundred and died of natural causes—an organic, unbleached death like something brought back from the Health Food Store. And no record.” He looked at his friend, at his cooked face, reduced as ember. “You know,” he said, “this is very decent of you, Ellerbee. In your position I’m not sure I wouldn’t harbor a grudge.”

“It’s too hot to harbor a grudge,” Ellerbee said.

“It’s ironic,” Ladlehaus said dreamily, “I was an accomplice to your murder and now we’re good pals.”

“It’s too hot to be good pals,” Ellerbee said, and ran off howling.

God came to Hell. He was very impressive, Ladlehaus thought. He’d seen Him once before, from a distance—a Being in spotless raiment who sat on a magnificent golden throne. He looked different now. He was clean-shaven and stood before Ladlehaus and the others in a carefully tailored summer suit like a pediatrician in a small town, a smart tie mounted at His throat like a dagger. The flawless linen, light in color as an army field cot, made a quiet statement. He was hatless and seemed immensely comfortable and at ease. Ladlehaus couldn’t judge His age.

“Hi,” God said. “I’m the Lord. Hot enough for you?” He asked whimsically and frowned at the forced laughter of the damned. “Relax,” He said, “it’s not what you think. This isn’t a harrowing of Hell, there’ll be no gleaning or winnowing. I’m God, not Hodge. It’s only an assembly. How you making out? Are there any questions?” God looked around but there were no takers. “No?” He continued, “where are My rebels and organizers, My hotshot bizarrerie, all you eggs in one basket curse-God-and-diers? Where are you? You—punks, Beelzebubs, My iambic angels in free fall, what’s doing? There are no free falls, eh? Well, you’re right, and it’s okay if you don’t have questions.

“The only reason I’m here is for ubiquitous training. I’m Himself Himself and I don’t know how I do it. I don’t even remember making this place. There must have been a need for it because everything fits together and I’ve always been a form-follows-function sort of God, but sometimes even I get confused about the details. Omniscience gives Me eyestrain. I’ll let you in on something. I wear contacts. Oh yes. I grind the lenses Myself. They’re very strong. Well, you can imagine. You’d go blind just trying them on. And omnipotence— that takes it out of you. I mean if you want to work up a sweat try omnipotence for a few seconds. To heck with your jogging and isometrics and crash diets. Answering prayer—that’s another one. Plugged in like the only switchboard operator in the world. You should hear some of the crap I have to listen to. ‘Dear God, put a wave in my hair, I’ll make You novenas for a month of Sundays.’ ‘Do an earthquake in Paris, Lord, I’ll build a thousand-bed hospital.’

“You like this? You like this sort of thing? Backstage with God? Jehovah’s Hollywood? Yes? Or maybe you’re archeologically inclined? Historically bent, metaphysically. Well here I am. Here I am that I am. God in a good mood. Numero Uno Mover moved. Come on, what would you really like to know? How I researched the Netherlands? Where I get My ideas?”

“Sir, is there Life before Death?” one of the damned near Ladlehaus called out.

“What’s that,” God said, “graffiti?”

“Is there Life before Death?” the fellow repeated.

“Who’s that? That an old-timer? Is it? Someone here so long his memory’s burned out on him, his engrams charred and gone all ashes? Can’t remember whether breakfast really happened or’s only part of the collective unconscious? How you doing, old-timer? Ladlehouse, right?”

Ladlehaus remained motionless, motionless, that is, as possible in his steamy circumstances, in his smoldering body like a building watched by firemen. He made imperceptible shifts, the floor of Hell like some tightrope where he juggled his weight, redistributing invisible tensions in measured increments of shuffle along his joints and nerves. All he wanted was to lie low in this place where no one could lie low, where even the disciplined reflexes of martyrs and stylites twitched like thrown dice. And all he could hope was that pain itself—which had never saved anyone—might serve him now, permitting him to appear like everyone else, swaying in place like lovers in dance halls beneath Big Bands.

“You, Ladlehaus!” the Big Band leader blared.

Throughout the Underworld the nine thousand, six hundred and forty-three Ladlehauses who had died since the beginning of time, not excepting the accomplice to Ellerbee’s murder, looked up, acknowledged their presence in thirty tongues. These are my family, Ladlehaus thought, and glanced in the direction of the three or four he could actually see. Their blackened forms, lathered with smoke and fire damage, were as meaningless to him, as devoid of kinship, as the dry flinders of ancient bone in museum display cases. Meanwhile God was still out there. “Not you,” He said petulantly to the others, “the old-timer.”

He means me, Ladlehaus thought, this shaved and showered squire God in His summer linens means me. He means me, this commissioned officer Lord with his myrrh and frankincense colognes and aromatics and His Body tingling with morning dip and agency, all the prevailing moods of fettle and immortality. He means me, and even though he knew there had been a mistake, that he’d not been the one who’d sounded off, Ladlehaus held his tongue. He means me, He makes mistakes.